Black Cherry
by Sunruner
Summary: The way Romano sees it, second-hand friendship is just what happens when your little brothers can't stay away from each other. Where dark chocolate and cherries come into play, well, he's still working on that. Prumano. SEQUEL SEQUEL SEQUEL COMING BWAHAHA.
1. Part 1: Paris

**Everybody Loves Me, I See the Light, Lullaby, Wide Awake, **

**I just wanted some Happy!Mano, that's all I wanted, honest. It's not my fault he's my fandom bicycle and the greyface on Tumblr suggested Prumano.**

**I have NEVER written Prumano, otherwise this would have been nice and short. Instead it turned into 8 chapters of derpy love. It's a bit less polished than my usual work, ****but give it a go and leave a comment if you enjoy!**

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_**Black Cherry**_

Pt. 1: Paris

It starts with a drink.

But not sex.

It's just a drink in Vienna during one of the never-ending string of conferences. They're bored as hell and since their little brothers effectively handle the bulk of the policy, they've got the most free time and decide, screw it, they're not going to drink alone.

In the beginning Spain's there too, but France takes England back to the hotel before he can get too blitzed, and their little brothers didn't come anyway. By the time Spain falls asleep at their table Romano's head is light and Older Kraut's pale cheeks are flushed, and they're just talking.

Not much comes of it, no lusting gazes over the lip of the wine glass or raging boners hidden behind bar-brand napkins.

"Paris next month?"

Sure.

But in between Vienna and Paris Veneziano blows the daylights out of his laptop, because he's an idiot, and since he has to stay in Rome for a set of non-European nations they've invited for a small summit, Romano gets stuck with the task of going up to Berlin to figure out if anyone there knows how to save a hard-drive from the effects of balsamic vinegar.

As an aside, yes, they thought about asking Estonia or Japan, but Estonia swore off helping either of them with computers after the Tomato Virus of '07 and Japan's solution is always to pawn off the latest and smallest electronics instead of fixing what used to be a perfectly good notebook. Romano also refuses to fly to Tokyo for such a stupid reason.

Kraut-breath's first question is to ask Romano why he came to Berlin for such a stupid reason. He spends the rest of the day e-mailing and compacting and printing and whatever-ing as much of the information he and Veneziano share for Romano to take back with him. Sensitive documents can't just be e-mailed, and his brother was too wound up to accept the idea of just sending a human to do a human's job.

So while the stupid potato-eater is busy doing office stuff, Romano wanders into the kitchen and asks what that fucking nasty smell is. Older potato-eater is in charge of the frothing pot of ick and Romano is sure to stay a minimum of ten feet away for fear of vomitting out his inner organs.

"You think you could do better?" Yes. "You sure?" Fuck yes. "Well maybe next time we're in Rome you-" Get the fuck out of the way. "Hey, I just made that!"

"Well it smells like piss!"

As far as non-Italian kitchens go, the one here is surprisingly well stocked. There's a sore lack of fresh herbs and tomatoes, but after brow-beating Older-Kraut for a good twenty minutes that _no nothing is supposed to smell that bad don't bring Scotland into this you bastard you're still wrong,_ a decent meal of stuffed chicken-breasts, alfredo sauce, and gross, nastymashed potatoes comes together just as Younger Kraut-breath comes downstairs with a sealed legal-sized envelope and a scolding for Romano to pass on to his own idiot brother.

Young Kraut leaves to answer the phone before Romano can get his ears to stop stinging, but Old Kraut is there with a mouthful of chicken and a cold beer before he's ready for him.

"You know, you're pretty good at cooking. It's hard to find someone who's better than me at something that isn't pastries." Idiot, cooking's simple. "Well what did you stuff in this then? It's good." None of your god-damned business. "You found it in my kitchen! Tell me!" He's such a child!

"God damn! Come to Rome if you want to know so badly!" Romano regrets the words almost as soon as they're out of his mouth. But he comes to regret them even more when he has to spend the next six hours travelling beside Old Kraut and brings him home to Veneziano, because Young Kraut lets his brother do whatever the hell he wants, and Old Kraut wants Romano to cook for him, and it's two weeks until the Paris conference.

It's... somehow... a very fun two weeks.

Veneziano likes gross mushy potatoes and nasty wurst shit, so he's happy to have Old Kraut stay with them with his smiles and his stupid laugh. Romano sticks to wine while his stupid brother tries some of the different beers that bleed across the border into his territory, and Romano shows the tall goof-ball that you can't mash the herbs, you have to grind them, stupid.

And Romano does not like the cakes the Prussian shows them. And he hates that chocolate torte with the semi-sweet whipped cream and candied cherries and dark chocolate shavings. It's terrible. Awful. Honestly he can't stand that gooey cherry preserve in the middle that's just tart enough for the cake. And no he doesn't want the recipe for those apple things but if Prussia's already written it down then fine and is that cherry wine?

"I thought you were the authority on wine?"

"That's France. I export the stuff." But Romano's pallet is better than Veneziano's, so after his brother's stuffed himself full of nasty German food and gone to bed one night, and Prussia and Romano are outside on the balcony in Rome, he sips the sweet drink and casts a longing look at the half-eaten torte on Prussia's plate.

"You like cherries, huh?"

"Grapes are better," is the conditioned response.

"Oh, nevermind then..." Wait, nevermind what? "Eh, just an idea." Idea to do what? What was he going to do? Don't eat cake, answer the god-damned question! "I was thinking gelato..."

"Gelato what?"

"Cherry gelato. Obviously German ice-cream is superior, but if you made a gelato then I think you could get more of the tart out of them." All ice-cream is shit compared to gelato because it's too sweet and sticky, but the idea of those royal black fruits with their burgundy juice churning away, that pallet-cleansing red washing over his tongue with the sharp tang of the ripe fruit- Romano's not drooling but that's probably because he has wine to drink.

"...That sounds okay."

"Tomorrow?"

Tomorrow comes with a big bag of black cherries and an ungodly amount of milk and cream. They don't quite know where to start since Romano is better with savoury dishes and Prussia's desserts are normally baked, but they think of a couple ways to combine the ingredients. All the little fruits need to lose their stems and pits first anyways, so they talk as they work.

Twenty minutes in, the Italian kitchen is a crime-scene of mangled fruits with Romano vainly trying to keep every last black drop of delicious in the bowls and pots surrounding them. He's laughing at some stupid German joke when the knife slips and instead of black, some very vibrant red begins running over his fingers.

"SHIT, SHIT, SHIT."

"Woah! What did you do?" FUCKING BLOOD GETTING IN THE FUCKING CHERRIES GOD-DAMN IT THAT'S NOT FUCKING OKAY. "Oi! Stop swearing and just-"

He doesn't lose a finger and the cut isn't that deep, but Prussia stains an old out-of-fashion handkerchief with cherry juice and Italian blood by wrapping the silk around his hand. The fact that his hands were wet with juice made the blood spread faster, but with a bit of water and a lot more swearing to direct Prussia to the first-aid-kit the crisis is handled neatly.

Unlike their cherries, which are now literally a bloody massacre. A few drops of blood won't kill a person, but it's unsanitary and unsightly and just plain not okay, so the lot of them get dumped out. All of this serves to leave the Italian and his cooking partner sulking with too many bottles of cream and not enough pitted cherries. Romano sulks his way through two more German jokes until he hears Prussia mumble something, looks up, and finds half a cherry shoved past his lips by a thick calloused thumb.

He doesn't even chew the firm sweet flesh, he just swallows and stares as heat bolts down his stomach and Prussia swipes his cherry-stained thumb over Romano's lips, painting them with the red juice.

"So we only have a couple left, can't let them go to waste, can we?" N-No, they can't. But it's not until Prussia pops another half-cherry in his own mouth that Romano works up the nerve to lick the thick flavour off his lips. "Do you like them?" Y-Yeah, whatever, they taste alright. "Good, now while I clean this up, you divide them evenly."

He means divide the remaining cherries so they can both snack on them, but as Prussia plunges his hands into hot soapy water and Romano takes over feeding them both the sweet red berries, the Prussian ends up eating almost all of them. He eats them because, uh, Romano doesn't really like cherries but- um, maybe if Prussia wouldn't... lick... his lips kind of... soft...

Romano's very happy when the two weeks are over and it's time to go to Paris, and he tries but he can't come up with an excuse not to attend the conference. It is, of all things, about agriculture and that means South Italy really actually definitely has to be there.

Prussia goes back home two days before, and misses the first day of four in Paris. Romano knows he's in town when room-service knocks on his door one evening with a German cherry-chocolate tart in a box, and there's a stupid bird and a ridiculous pun in the little card. He eats the dessert in the hall so he won't have to explain or (god-forbid) share with his little brother, and slips the card in his pocket to forget about.

He has a hell of a time sleeping with dreams of warm chocolate kisses on his lips, or memories of thick cherry wine on a summer balcony in Rome.

The next day has Romano get into a shouting match with France over cultivation methods and green house gas emissions tied to the wine industry. He's frustrated and exhausted by the time he hears a stupid laugh and feels a friendly arm clap him around the shoulders, so he leans right into the hold and whines about how much butter French people put in their food.

They spend the rest of the night drinking bitter French wine and talking about what kinds of olive oil are best for brazing, frying, searing, and dressing. Romano doesn't even mind that he's talked into giving a bottle of his best olive oil to Gilbert, he just gets to see those wine-stained lips stretch in an obnoxious grin and wonders what those long fingers would feel like caring for him the way they do cherry stems and pastry dough...

He's fallen so hard that when the next day has Gilbert and Spain get into a shouting match and brawl over something on their lunch break, Romano runs away so he won't have to pick a side. He's in ruins when his decision to hide in a Parisian farmer's market makes him choose inferior pink cherries over questionably yellow tomatoes to munch on.

Romano spends the rest of the conference willingly cloaking himself in Veneziano's shadow, whispering whatever has to be said to his baby brother so their industries and exports are protected for another year. Not only does Veneziano notice the change, but he mistakenly scolds Spain thinking he's the reason for it and turns down dinner with Young Kraut so the brothers can spend the night together quietly. They pack that night and Romano curls himself up in a love-sick ball on the bed, alternating between giddy and weepy because he doesn't take these kinds of emotions well. Veneziano stays and doesn't judge him, even when it's clear he's curious about who the culprit is after Romano explains that no, it isn't Spain.

"Italy!" THERE IS NO ESCAPE, but they almost make it out of the hotel the next morning before Young Kraut gets his brother's attention, and Romano should really stop calling him Young Kraut because Gilbert-

IS RIGHT THERE, _**SHIT**_.

But his little brother and Gilbert's little brother can't say goodbye in less than sixteen words, and that number swiftly increases until the two little brothers are drowning in words and the two older ones are standing there in awkward, extended silence.

"So, I was wondering..." OhGodOhGodOhGod. Romano wants to make a wise-crack about Gilbert not thinking because it's bad for his health, but the tease gets stuck in his throat because Gilbert's got that dumb stupid grin- "this time of year, the Rhine valley is-"

"No." _Hell no!_ Romano's not falling into that trap, he's not going to spend a romantic however-long travelling along the Rhine in Germany. "Growing season, too busy, have to work." He's only half lying, because the real work comes with the harvest and that's a month or two off still, but he can't go. He has to go home and calm down and get over this stupid school-yard crush so him and Gilbert can go back to spending time together without stupid Gilbert's stupid cherry-red eyes slipping past him like he's not even... there... "Sorry."

"Naw, it's fine! Duty calls."

"I'll be in Naples, if you want to-" NO! What was the point of saying no if he was just going to offer and-!

"Right, that's your city isn't it?" Erm, yes. The two halves of Italy share Rome, but Veneziano keeps a special eye on Venice and Romano is attached to Naples. "Sounds like a plan." No! No plan! No coming! No-

"Yeah... I'll call you."

"You'd better."

Oh God…

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**Read and review guys! I'm not stomping on too many Prumano headcanons, am I?**


	2. Part 2: Naples

**I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, Right Here Waiting.**

**Typos removed.**

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_**Black Cherry**_

Part 2: Naples

(He doesn't.)

He wants to _die. _But the plane down to Rome doesn't crash, and Romano decides he needs time to think and drives down to Naples instead of taking the train. Veneziano makes him promise to call when he gets there, because he's worried, but it's a long drive along the sea. Romano makes the trip last almost twice as long as it should by stopping every hour or so and just wandering down from the highway, tasting the wind and taking short, curious tours of some of his small towns.

His property isn't actually in Naples, it's about an hour outside the city and up in the farmland and foothills of the Apennine Mountains. It's an ancient villa built by Romano himself, fixed by Grandpa Rome, rebuilt by Romano, remodelled by Spain, fixed up by Romano, and paid for by America to fix a-fucking-gain after the war. But the house isn't as important as the land, which is a couple acres dominated by grape vines, a walled vegetable garden attached to the house, a spring nestled down between the hills, a few misplaced fruit trees and a lot of carelessly abandoned farm equipment.

It's almost midnight by the time he reaches his first and truest 'home', and he passes out on stale sheets hoping against hope that his cherry tree is dead.

Sweet cherries are, um, sweet. They don't go as well with dark chocolate as black cherries, they aren't as sharp or juicy, and they're smaller too than the ones Romano's been seeing too much of. But these are his cherries, not Gilbert's, and since God didn't see fit to strike his fruit trees dead with lightning while he wintered up north, Romano just eats the stupid things with his breakfast and then gets to work.

He has people who tend his grape vines when he's not in residence, but everything else is his and his alone. South Italy actually _likes_ and _enjoys_ farming, it's something he and Ukraine talk about sometimes when they're bored at meetings, it's what he does when he needs to think.

So he spends two days just thinking in worn-out jeans and a stained sleeveless shirt, and he rips every non-edible plant out of that very large walled garden. It's hot and sweaty work so at times he casts off the shirt, daring the sun to just try and burn him after centuries of the same dance. He doesn't even mind the occasional nick or scratch of something biting his arms or chest, because the fertile black soil under all the weeds and vines is what he's after.

Veneziano only disturbs him once with a phone-call, just to check on him, but other than that everyone in Rome knows to leave South Italy alone when he's in Naples. It's not his temper, it's just good agriculture: if South Italy is farming, then let him farm. The tedium of bundling plant stalks and the grunt labour of mixing fertilizer all keep him from getting too worked up about stupid Prussians and stupid crushes that just complicate everything.

After a few more days he moves from the garden to the fruit grove, where he spends most of his time moving the ladder from one side of the tree to the other so he can prune branches and leaves. He's in the middle of reaching too far when he feels the ladder suddenly come free and begin to fall, his world slowing right down as the vertigo of an impending plummet catches him like a net. The sheers fall from his hand-

"Woah!" Shitit'sgonnahurt- "Romano!"

It's that fucking cherry tree. That's what he falls out of and for a split-second he's grateful he wasn't too high up, because one moment he's falling and the next he's flat on his back on the grass and everything _hurts. _His head is pounding from the impact and his chest is weak and sore, and the fact that his leg slipped through the metal rungs just-

"Romano?" Huh? "Shit- Romano! Are you okay?" Who the-? "Hey! Answer me!"

Romano opens his eyes under the dappled sunlight. There are hands touching his sweaty face and pushing back his dark hair, but then he feels them touching his sides and his arms, running over his skin in a way that shouldn't be suggestive, but it is. Gilbert even has a hand resting right on his thigh as he works the ladder free and shoves the beaten metal away with a loud clatter. His knee hurts, but that'll go away, and the hands that help him straighten the limb out stay where they are.

The words _'lay me down and fuck me right'_ come to mind and Romano immediately jerks upright like he can escape the whisper. Gilbert's hands fly to his shoulders as soon as he's sitting, and Romano can't ignore the worry in his friend's voice as he harps at him. Gilbert's skin is so white against the green leaves and gold sunlight that he looks sort of like a dream.

"Woah! Not so fast, you shouldn't get up yet. Does your head hurt?"

"I'm a little dizzy," and not just from the fall.

"Then lay down."

"You're over-reacting."

"I just watched you fall ten feet shut up." Those words bury themselves in Romano's ear and won't come out, they chew right through his skull and into his brain, and he's got a sinking suspicion they'll work their way down further by sometime tonight. It's not the falling ten feet part, it's the '_I watched you_', and it's the fact that Gilbert still has one hand on Romano's shoulder and his long fingers are holding the side of his neck trying to lend it support. Romano isn't hanging his head because his neck is broken, he's doing it because his tan isn't dark enough to hide the stupid idiot blush.

"What're you doing here anyways?" It's better than pointing out the fact that Gilbert's still touching him, the hand on his shoulder is holding on carefully, and when the Prussian gives him a push to lay down again, Romano doesn't resist. He settles on his back and swings one arm up to shield his eyes from the sun, peering up through the shadow at the man in a red tee-shirt, khaki shorts, and ugly sandals sitting next to him on the grass.

Romano remembers right about _now_ that he abandoned his shirt again after dealing with the lemon tree an hour ago.

"West and I came down to talk business with your brother." Gilbert explains, although it takes him a second to get going. "But they started getting all, you know, so instead of staying I came down this way." That sounds really fucking suspiciously like _'so Veneziano gave me very explicit directions on how to find this place without telling you'_. The question now is whether Veneziano sent him or if Gilbert honestly-

Oh shut up.

"Well if you're here," But why is he here? Romano has a reason but he still doesn't know _why... _"You gonna help?"

"With what?"

Romano's allowed to sit up this time, and Gilbert falls back on his rump to stay out of the way. It's hot as hell and his thoughts are still slow and hazy, but it's too far to get up and walk to fetch his water-bottle from the base of the cherry tree. At least he won't have to carry the ladder back all by himself, but it's a small victory. Running on hand back through his hair in the heat, he gestures across the small orchard to the road neither of them can see through the sun and shrubs. Then he explains:

"The stone wall on the west edge fell over."

"You're shitting me."

"There's always the night train back to Rome." Take the train, take the train, please take the train. As Gilbert sits there and stews Romano can feel his coherence coming back, and along with it comes the cold, sharp sting of panic if the Prussian decides to stay. The burning blush won't go away until he can find his shirt and put the idiot on a train back to not-his-house, but he can already feel himself giving up on the latter.

Instead, after Gilbert's convinced his knee is fine and he can walk around, the other nation carries the ladder back home and the questions resume. Safe inside a cotton tee again, Romano does what little he can to keep the silence away.

"So you took the train down, but how did you actually get all the way out here to the house?"

"Rental car, but the road tore it to hell. Do you seriously own the land on both sides of the dell?" Uh, yeah? "And you cultivate it? All of it?"

"Not commercially, but yeah." They reach the sun-soaked villa and Romano pries open the rickety side door, the dead-bolt broken and useless. No one ever comes checking doors anyways, so it's not a problem when Romano forgets his windows are still propped open. The ladder gets stashed in the back by the garden wall, and as Gilbert joins him inside the platinum blonde immediately swings across the kitchen and peers out at the thriving vegetables.

"Shit! How many people live here?"

"Just me?" Stupid question.

"That's enough food to feed half an army." Yeah, well, he doesn't keep any animals so they're going to be eating a lot of produce. Even as he says the words Romano shuffles over to the old stove-top, flicking on the gas and deftly setting the match to the burner so it'll light. His hands are filthy from working, but he's not prepping anything.

"And you grow it all yourself..."

"_Yes_, damn it, and it's not that special so quit gawking!" Pulling over the large pot of soup he's been surviving off of for a week, part of coming to Naples involves getting away from all the grease and meat of Rome and the other capital cities. A peasant's diet is good for you, so if Gilbert's going to complain then he can... just... wait for Romano to go into town to find something better...

"Smells good." G-Good, but did Gilbert have to stand so close to him to check the pot? When he asks what exactly is in the minestrone the only ingredient Romano can name out of the medley is tomatoes. Something about watching Gilbert pluck a sweet cherry out of the bowl on the kitchen table and pop it into his mouth scatters the rest of his thoughts.

Needless to say, despite a minor concussion and days of mind-numbing work, with Gilbert in the next room Romano doesn't get any sleep that night. And the next day:

"Why are you on my roof?"

"There's a hole in it! I saw the water damage on the-"

"It's a stone house. Get off the roof."

"These tiles are all broken-"

"GILBERT GET OFF THE ROOF."

His scolding works but Gilbert is intent on scurrying around like a mouse. By the time Romano's finished digging an old unused bag of cement mix from one of his outbuildings to repair the wall, Gilbert's found his old carpentry tools and fashioned part of a new frame for the broken back door.

"What if someone tries breaking in? Jeeze."

"My nearest neighbour is ten minutes away."

"Walking?"

"Driving."

"Oh." Gilbert makes the excuse that a tiger might creep down from the mountains, and Romano's more amused by the ridiculous statement than willing to correct him about the lack of big cats in Italy. That he manages to re-hang a crooked door in the hallway and oils every squeaky hinge in the estate also helps sooth Romano's nerves.

"Gelato." And then they're frayed again at dinner, and not just because Gilbert insists on sitting close enough to touch instead of safely across the table from him. "Oh come on! You've got your own fruit grove and it's way too hot to bake anything." Crushed ice would be easier, he's got an icebox right over- "Gelato! Gelatogelatogelato-!"

"Okay, _fine!_" Gelato it is then, and Romano has a hell of a time keeping his cool after two days of no sleep and a long, winding drive down from the estate and into town. He loses Gilbert for about half an hour in the laughter and energy of the settlement and does most of the grocery shopping for them, but by the time he's piled the coffee and wrapped meat and a shit-load of cream into the back of his old truck, the grinning dope materializes through the sun and noise with-

"You son of a..." Where the hell did he find German chocolate in a place like this? It occurs to him but Romano never actually asks, when he sees a bag from the pharmacy with shampoo and what looks like toothpaste in it, how long Gilbert intends to stay with him.

He'd much rather rib him about the fact that the idiot bought a quart of black cherries when he's been going on about Romano's orchard for days.

In the end they wind up with three flavours of gelato and turn Romano's kitchen into a citrus-flavoured disaster. His lemon and pomegranate trees are given a chance to show off their charms, but Romano sneaks an extra spoonful of the rich cherry-chocolate cream into his bowl when Gilbert isn't looking. Between the wine and remaining chocolate, laughing over stupid jokes and idiot brothers, Romano finally gets a good night sleep passed out in his living room chair.

He wakes up early with a stiff neck and a blanket over his lap, but there's also the sticky sweet of pomegranate juice on his lips and Gilbert is nowhere to be found.

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**I was gonna keep going, but then I realized it was just as long as the first chapter...**

**Headcanons galore~ Comment?**


	3. Part 3: Uuuh

**Mr. Hurricane, I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, and Aurora by Hans Zimmer which everyone should buy because I'm not American and therefore can't…**

**I don't even know what I think of this chapter anymore. I had a beautiful idea and I have no idea how well or poorly I executed it, because at its best I tried to re-imagine what's otherwise a horrible stereotype of the boy-love genre, and at its worst I took the porno-esque nature of the title (Black Cherry? Seriously? IT SOUNDS LIKE A PORNO) and ran with it.**

**I'm so sorry and the worst part is I can't stop laughing.**

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**_Black Cherry_**

Part 3: I Didn't Think This Through

Remember that wall? Romano does, and he intends to fix it today since his garden is doing fine and any work with the grapevines will require several days of intense labour. He's got the cement and the stone for it, and the weather's sunny and bright like it always is in summer.

There's little point in showering before this kind of labour, but Romano makes sure to do that and brush his teeth to rid himself of the sweet residue from last night. And where's Gilbert? Romano doesn't even bother worrying about it because he has to wait for the German to get out of the shower before he can get in there to clean up.

"Coffee?"

Sure. Gilbert makes an alright cup. It's not as good as Veneziano's espresso, but that's not a fair comparison and the Prussian does a better job than America or Canada (those two have no idea what they're doing). It's not until Romano comes back into the kitchen in his work-clothes and sees a cup of coffee waiting for him than he decides to drop the bomb on Gilbert.

It still takes him a few minutes to actually say it though. The decision is the easy part, but distracting Gilbert from where he's bent over the sink scrubbing away at some sticky gelato mess from last night... it's bad but Romano just tastes the hot black drink and listens to Gilbert mutter a few soft curses in German. For a moment, South Italy feels unnaturally bold and wonders what those grey shorts would feel like under his hands, or whether Gilbert's back bends quiet the way the sun is implying as it shines on the white cotton tented over his shoulders.

He drinks his coffee and tells himself to grow the fuck up. He has work to do today and lusting isn't going to get any of it done.

"Hey, are you helping me or not today?"

"Huh? What does it look like I'm doing?" Making coffee and shaking your ass, which isn't what Romano means but if he isn't allowed to touch then Gilbert had better stop doing it.

"Masonry's a two-man job."

"Shit, you're really _serious _about that?" Why wouldn't he be? Gotta keep those big mean tigers out of his orchard. "Haha, fuck you."

Romano doesn't have a come-back for that. At least not one he can say.

They eat a light breakfast and Romano sets out a few things for them to make a fast lunch out of later, then it's a quick march around the garden and outbuilding. They gather up the tools they need before they make the long trek across the rolling dell to reach the grove and the fallen wall on the west side of the property. Gilbert complains and Romano laughs at him, until finally he gets the idiot into the task by challenging that old line from Grandpa Rome's song:

"Aren't Germans supposed to be the best engineers?"

"It's a four foot wall, there's no engineering involved."

"Says you."

Says Gilbert until he stops complaining and hunkers down because there's work to be done, and there's no sense whining about it. Gilbert's military background kicks in before they're at it for more than ten minutes. The two men pile rocks and fit them in place, mixing cement and shovelling and sloughing the heavy muck around with only a few sparse words. It's good hard work, but the sun catches up with them before they're even a third of the way through. Romano's too busy worrying about not crushing his fingers to give a damn when he knocks his hat away and pulls off his shirt again to let the breeze help cool him down. The sun is unforgivable in summer so his shoes are abandoned soon too, Gilbert teasing him about being barefoot in the grass and grime before Romano snaps at him to hold that rock steady, damn it.

But eventually Gilbert's won over to the idea of shedding the useless clothes. Safety? Who needs safety in Italy? The work boots and socks he tried wearing in the heat are tossed aside as the wall grows taller. Romano focuses on mixing fresh cement to replace the powdered and weather-worn mortar between the remaining rocks and slabs making up the barrier. He'd rather fight with the shovel and the wheelbarrow than let his eyes wander after Gilbert's shirt goes the way of Romano's and rests in the tantalizing shade. Romano has to plant at least two more trees: it's not fair for the shade to end three feet short of where they're working.

In the end their wall is crooked and sloppy looking, but it's standing straight and follows the lay of the rolling land. Romano is no perfectionist when it comes to building things. He needs a wall to keep dogs and goats and things like that off his property, he needs a physical barrier to mark his property in case some random shit goes down and he has to prove where his responsibilities begin and end. A sloppy wall is a good wall, so long as it stays up.

"Oh god..." It's up and Gilbert goes down, Romano watching him just collapse on the green grass, limbs spread wide and sweat making his skin shine. Shit. "It's hot, it's so hot, it's so fucking hot, do something!"

"Uh, like what?" Romano barely catches the simpering demand, but he snaps his eyes away from whatever he was admiring and starts rubbing his hands together in a half-hearted effort to get the cement paste off his fingers.

"It's your country! Make it rain!" That's impossible? "Clouds then!" Still not his job. "How the hell do you get anything done in this heat?" Romano doesn't answer, because he shouldn't have to, but Gilbert isn't up for smarm and clever comments right now and just starts kicking his feet like a baby. "Shit, even the air- my lungs are drowning...!"

"There's always the spring if you-"

"Spring?" Gilbert's head pops up. "You have a spring? Like one with water?" No, he means one made of copper. _No you idiot of course it's got water._ "Cold water?"

Instead of answering, Romano starts walking. He's not worried about someone stealing a wheelbarrow partially filled with semi-solid cement mix, or a shovel in the same condition, so they just leave them on the orchard-side of the wall as Gilbert flouders on the grass and chases after him.

As in literally chases, because yes Romano's tired from all that work, and the heat is intense even for him, but the thought of showing off another feature of his home is too exciting to just amble and saunter down across half an acre of slopping paths and olive trees. His bare feet pound the packed earth and sunlight flashes white and gold as they pass under tree branches and follow the lay of the land. Romano has no fear of tripping or falling and Gilbert lags a little bit behind trying to be a little more cautious.

Several hundred years of living in the same place has given Romano enough time to cut steps into the rock leading down to the water, along with a rope to hang onto and hand-holds for more safety. The water bubbles and gurgles out of the mountain through a network of caves he has no honest interest in exploring, since they're all underwater, and drowning doesn't appeal to him even on a hot day like this. The spring is located at the lowest point in the dell, out of sight from the villa and bathed in sunlight at most hours of the day, specifically now with the stinging eye hovering directly over their heads.

Food would be good, but as soon as Romano's feet hit the familiar platform of cut stone, he leaps and draws his knees in tight to his chest, eyes closed before the shock of ice cold mountain water hits him like a lightning bolt. It's disorienting and yet brilliant as the liquid closes around his limbs and flashes straight through denim jeans, thick sweat, and dark tangled hair to get to his skin. The cold floods his ears and swells around his nose and mouth until he breathes out, his feet kicking at nothing but the silent dark as his arms stroke once and, there-

Romano breaks the surface again and the sun flashes over his closed eyes, a gasp ripping out of his lungs as he's still reeling a little from the jolt. Cold water can kill, but this spring isn't nearly the right temperature for that.

"How deep is it?" Huh? "I'm up here! How deep?" Romano looks up and it's easy to spot Gilbert with his white hair and pale skin, hands on his hips as he shuffles a little bit on the stone ledge, looking down critically at him as the Italian kicks his legs and spreads his arms under the water so he can float comfortably.

"Shallow on that end, but here it's pretty deep." _That end_ is the way out of the spring, the sloping stone that leads into broken rocks, mud, mulch and finally grass. The water drains another way through the ground, and the deepest, darkest part where Romano's floating is the mouth of those submerged caves.

"Can I dive?"

"If you want."

So he does. It's not some pretty olympic swan-dive or a pin-straight drop into the depths, in fact judging by that splash and the sound of it Romano would hazard that Gilbert just about flops trying to get in. He's laughing in preparation for the idiot to surface again and takes a mouthful of water when something grabs his ankle and _whoops_, he's under.

It's cold and it's quiet and his eyes snap open in the blurry dark, the sunlight casting rays around them as Gilbert gets back up to the surface before he does. The Prussian is whooping and hollering to get around the shock of the cold water on his skin, punching and splashing as he laughs. It's funny and ridiculous, so Romano makes the appropriate response: with a sharp splash of water to the face, the Italian lunges with a grin and gets his hands on his friend's pale shoulders, shoving him back under the water before his own head goes down.

It's fun, okay? That's the only god-damned reason for it. It's fun, and there's no one around to judge or make him feel stupid for wanting to have one little bit of stupid-ass fun with his friend, because that's what Gilbert is. He's Romano's god-damned _friend._

And yes, he likes him more than a friend, so the kicking and the splashing is easier for him than the wrestling and shoving in the shallower waters. And yes it's distracting when the light shines down and Gilbert's whole body just starts to _glow_ like he's made of ivory, and the contrast between his sun-dark skin and the northerner's unnaturally pale complexion is startling. But between cheap-shots with the water and head-locks that turn into half-drowning flails in the shallows, for every awkward and slippery touch or time when faces come just a little too close together, more than Romano wants to kiss or touch the man grappling with him, he wants him smiling. The laughter when Gilbert comes up for air because Romano's got him pinned is more important than the cold water sloshing between their hips, because Romano has a hard time making friends, but he likes having them.

He'd rather keep friends like Gilbert than lose lovers like him. It's a lot easier and not nearly as painful, even if Gilbert makes it a trial by flipping them in the cold spring as soon as Romano lets his guard down.

"You give up?" Gilbert pants the question after Romano goes under and resurfaces again, the Italian braced on his elbows so he can keep his face and chin above the water.

"Sure." Not really, but he's getting tired and the swimming's done wonders to cool him off. Gilbert's hands are planted on the ground to either side of Romano's shoulders, the water lapping at his arms while his legs are spread over the Italian's hips under the surface. The water is just deep enough here that Gilbert were going to actually pin him, Romano would drown, so the fun ends with their faces floating closer together than is otherwise ideal between friends.

God his lips are so close though, and parted too where he's still breathing hard, his body moving with every breath as water trickles down his shoulders and drips from his nearly white hair. The cold keeps anything uncomfortable from tightening his pants, but what if he just raised his arm and hooked it around that curved neck? What if he pulled those parted lips that aren't smiling anymore and covered them with his own? What if they just vanished under the sun-drenched water and shared a breath that's way too poetic and a good indication that Romano's got a bit of heat-stroke? It's time to get out.

But,

"Hey," His skin, Gilbert's skin. Gilbert's red eyes are focused right on him, but Romano's drift over into the light, away from the colour that reminds him of those damned cherries.

It takes some careful balance and a lot of weird muscle control to keep him steady on his hips and one elbow, but Romano drags one hand up out of the water and places his palm flat against the curve of Gilbert's back. The sunlight reflects off all the little beads of moisture clinging to them both as the Prussian lets out a breath, which is weird, because Romano didn't hear him holding it to begin with. Gilbert's face also drops and slides down closer to his, moving just past him like he's about to slip down into the water to try and rest on his shoulder.

"Uh... yeah?" It's a hoarse reply, gruff from all the laughing and working, and Romano tries not to close his eyes as the combination of sharp sunlight and rough murmurs by his ear try to challenge the effects of the cold water. The spring wins, and in a way, maybe, Romano loses.

"Hey, uh, I think..." Actually Gilbert loses. "I think you're burnt."

_"…What?"_ And he loses really, really badly.

* * *

**Okay, just an aside: I mean "I can't stop laughing" as in I can't believe I wrote something so cheesy, not I can't stop laughing at the pairing. This is my introduction to Prumano but I wouldn't be writing in excess of 10,000 words for them if I didn't like the pairing.**

**So I'm not mocking it. I just… really screwed up this scene somehow and I DON'T KNOW WHAT I DID.**


	4. Part 4: Ehehe

**Mr. Hurricane, because it is the best song.**

**This was not supposed to be a story why is it 4 chapters long and not done yet? I also can't remember the last time I posted 4 consecutive chapters in 4 consecutive days. This is a triumph for me!**

* * *

_**Black Cherry**_

Part 4: This Was Supposed to be a One-shot

He's burnt. Oh, he's burnt so bad, and Romano finds this hilarious because Gilbert gets it in his head before they're half-way back to the house that it's all his fault.

"_Fuck_, even my god-damned legs!" He can't remember the last time he saw someone burn the backs of their calves, but that's what several hours working in the sun will do to pasty German tourists. "You shut the hell up."

No_._

"You look like a tomato."

"And you sound like Spain!" That's not necessarily a bad thing, and as they track water and grass in through the repaired back door, Romano snorts as Gilbert waddles wet and stinging over to the living room couch and immediately flops down on his belly, face buried in his arm. His ears are red, and all the curves and dips of his back are slowly darkening from the livid burns.

Romano can't help himself, as he busies around in the kitchen he just has to ask: the mighty Prussia can't take a little sunburn?

"Shut the fuck up."

Couple hours hard work and he curls up in a little ball?

"I'm warning you."

That's right, if he tries curling up his skin'll split open.

"_Lovino...!"_

Snorting at the murderous voice and the dark red glare firing at him over the back of his couch, Romano finds what he's looking for and struts over to where his friend is suffering. He leans on the threadbare back of the couch and dangles a small white bottle between his fingers.

"Do you want these or not?" Asprin isn't the best cure for sunburns, but Gilbert makes the grabby hands and Romano lets him have the painkillers in exchange for a whimpered_ 'Thank you, thank you, you're the best, the very best, I mean it.' _

Good enough.

Romano fixes up their lunch while Gilbert whines. It'd probably be nicer to sit outside in the breeze, but all he has to do is peer out the window at the (lack of) available shade to rule that out. Maybe he'll get Gilbert to build him a trellis in the garden for some extra shade. They eat at the coffee table with Gilbert still sprawled on the couch and Romano sitting on the cool stone floor, and the Prussian is being pathetic trying to feed himself without bending his elbow.

"This is why you and your brother always fall asleep in meetings, isn't it?" He means from habit? Yep. "It's so damn hot." Yep. "How come you're not burnt to shit all the time?" Because he's a farmer?

Gilbert stops talking for a bit, his sandwich half-eaten and abandoned on the plate while Romano polishes his off. They both need to change out of their damp clothes, and Romano should probably brave the sunny environment to bring in the tools and clothes they left outside. He should do that, but for now he just sits where he is and lets Gilbert watch him with one tired red eye peering out from under a mop of damp white hair.

"Problem?" He asks, because Gilbert just keeps staring long after Romano's done eating. Gilbert's chest expands with a deep breath before he practically sighs his answer.

"You do this every year, don't cha?" Does what? The farming? "You're gonna be here all summer. No North Italy or world meetings, you'll just stay out here and tend the land."

"I go to Naples when Veneziano needs me, or Rome if it's important." He sounds half asleep with these funny questions, but Romano just watches the way Gilbert's eyes begin to darken and his breaths even out. He's a military man, his body is lined with scars from battles and wars, his skin a ghostly white since he hasn't been active or in the field since the end of World War Two. Come to think of it, unless Germany lets him do random things back home in Berlin, Gilbert probably hasn't done hard labour like this in a very long time... "Sleep, you idiot. That's what siestas are for."

Gilbert doesn't answer him, but his cheeks and nose are burnt too because they're a bright pink colour. The Prussian nuzzles his face down into the crook of his own arm and closes his eyes, and as quietly as he can Romano gets up and shuffles away with their dishes.

It's been decades since Romano last suffered from a sunburn, so there's no point looking for some kind of cream or medication in the cupboards or under the sink. Gilbert's sleeping but he can practically hear the bastard going _'Ten acres and you don't have a single aloe plant!-?', _but again, if he isn't going to use it then why would he plant it? Instead he finds the landline phone in his next-to-never-used office and shuts the door. He tries to make a brief call to Rome, but with Veneziano nothing is ever brief, especially when there's teasing involved.

"I swear to God if you don't stop I'm going to make you eat marmite."

_"Ve~ it's not my fault you don't have internet! What have you and Prussia been doing together? Are you having fun? How'd you get burnt?"_

"VENEZIANO SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DO WHAT I ASKED."

In the end he hangs up and calls Belgium instead, because she's a lot more helpful, much further out of the loop, and she doesn't even have to pull up the internet to give him several remedies. It's a forty minute drive to the nearest pharmacy and Romano would really just rather not, especially when Belgium starts naming things he actually _does_ grow in his garden.

"_Grazie_, Bella. And no, I don't think I'll be in New York next month but thanks. Ciao."

He doesn't take Belgium's advice all the way. For one the idea of slicing up tomatoes and putting them on Gilbert seems like a ridiculous waste of tomatoes, and two, stewing them in vinegar first seems like it would hurt a lot and waste even _more_ tomatoes. But he does busy around in the kitchen and finally remembers to go retrieve the wheelbarrow and clothes from the orchard.

He makes sure there's another pair of asprin and a glass of cold water set out when Gilbert wakes up, because now that he's slept the pain of his burns hits him in full. Romano actually feels sorry for him, and this time he doesn't tease as he fetches a straw so Gilbert doesn't actually have to sit up to drink the water.

"We can try something, and if it doesn't work then I'll drive into town." He actually feels bad for not just leaving while Gilbert was asleep, because by now he'd be half-way back home with some kind of cream or gel to speed up the healing. He'll be fine by tomorrow regardless, but still.

"What's that?" The insides of a few ripe tomatoes mixed with water and chilled in the fridge, with mint leaves lightly crushed and added to the mix. Belgium's instructions were weird, but Romano just dips a rag in the red slurry and wrings it out between his hands before touching it to the back of Gilbert's shoulder. It's cold and he hisses at the contact, but that's why Romano didn't just drop the thing right on the middle of his back.

"If it stings worse I'll take it off."

"S'fine..." Well, he means it about the stinging. Applying acid to a burn seems pretty insane to him, but Belgium's the kind of fair-skinned girl who has to worry about these kinds of things. He doesn't wring as much of the red out of the cloth this time and he folds it twice before setting it on Gilbert's back. The compress is supposed to help, he's not sure how, but the Prussian just shivers again and Romano keeps the cloth there until it starts going warm. The process is repeated again and again as Gilbert hides his face under his arms and Romano asks every few minutes whether or not he should stop.

The inflammation goes down, which is a relief, and Gilbert's skin is still bright pink but it's not that same angry red as before. By the time he's done holding the wet rag to the backs of his legs Romano just drapes the soaked cloth over Gilbert's back again, pressing gently with his cold hands to make sure the juice and water get everywhere. It's almost impossible not to let his mind wander as he works, especially when he catches himself casually brushing his fingers down Gilbert's side to stop wayward drips of water from spilling onto the old couch.

"Okay, look up?" He makes the request but Gilbert doesn't move, and he's not asleep because he's way too rigid on the cushions for that. "Hey, I'm talking to you."

"M'face is fine."

"No it's not, your cheeks are burnt." Just like his ears, which is why when Gilbert ignores him a second time Romano twists the cloth in the cool water and then lightly pinches one red-stained lobe to apply the mixture. Gilbert sucks in a sharp breath, but just pushes his face down further. Seriously?

"Is it not working?"

"It works just fine." Romano can barely understand him right now. It's actually almost cute the way Gilbert won't so much as look at him, but at the same time Romano can _see_ the red staining his face. Soaking the rag one more time, Gilbert hasn't showered since that morning so Romano just unfurls the tomato-stained cloth and drapes it right over the Prussian's messy hair.

"Wash your own face then." It's a triumph that Gilbert's loosened up enough to prop himself up on his elbows, but he keeps his head down until he gets a grip on the rag and drags it down to cover his face. The way he rubs his eyes and cheeks emphasizes his next point:

"It's. Not. Burnt!"

"Well then why are you so red!" And why is he being such a baby? If either of them has something to complain about it's Romano for having to take care of him. "The least you can do is fucking look at me!"

"_Then put on a god-damned shirt!_" Wha-?

Gilbert whips the cloth down and his face is completely red. There's no pink, no white, no sun-spots or freckles or anything else, his cheeks are almost _purple_ that's how red they are.

_"I get it! You're Italian!"_ Wait, he-_ "Your brother pulls this shit all the time with West but will you just stop it!"_ Gilbert's suddenly sitting up but it's awkward, and Romano is stunned and falls back until he's braced with one hand on the tile floor, his back against the coffee table with nowhere to crawl away and hide.

But hang on, hold the fuck up why would he run away in his own house? No. Fuck you.

Romano stands the fuck up.

"You're the one bitching about the heat, asshole!"

So does Gilbert.

"Yeah, well you're fucking used to it!"

"Why do you think I had to ask _Belgium_ for some hackneyed cure for you!"

"You _what?_"

_"You think I just mash up tomatoes for shits and giggles!-?"_

"It sounds like some shit you'd do, _so yeah!_"

_"Fuck you!"_

"_Gladly!_"

"What?"

"Huh?"

Oh.

They don't talk for the rest of the evening. Romano storms out of his own house because he's too damn pissed to defend it on principle and kick Gilbert out. He escapes the argument and decides it's much safer to go (hide) amongst his fruit trees.

It's not until he's walked back and forth along that clumsy wall that his temper finally burns itself out. He isn't mad anymore, and he actually doubts he was mad to begin with, and if he was upset then he realizes it's not because of Gilbert.

Well okay that's a lie, of course it's because of Gilbert, but it's more his reaction than anything he actually did. Romano isn't the type to defend his brother when there's a chance it will get back to Veneziano, but he can't quite swallow them both being lumped up together negatively. If Romano forgetting his shirt in the heat sets off the same German modesty alarms that Veneziano's pantless escapades do for Germany, then Romano doesn't... really... want to go back...

He's that embarrassing..? Hah... Veneziano actually doesn't give a shit most of the time, it doesn't bother him to be a bother. He's just got that way with people where they'll put up with anything because it's him. Romano's not like that.

Romano's doing it again: that thing he's better about not doing anymore. As he sits down on the dry grass under the lemon tree, Romano can see the pink cherries across the grove shining in the red dusk, and he can hear his ears ringing like each fruit is a chiming bell. Veneziano doesn't so much as bat an eye at someone giving or holding a negative opinion of him, but Romano's just not that strong.

Shit... bad thoughts... he shouldn't be having these bad thoughts...

But his crush and close friend thinks he's tomato-obsessed and shameless, and when he stormed out he forgot to grab the shirt Prussia scolded him for not wearing. He should probably go back to calling him Prussia now too.

He's been riding a high for the last few days, but the truth of the matter is that Romano doesn't handle these emotions well. He doesn't like being unsettled or compared, he can't handle being examined or judged. Judge the plants and the soil and the weather, comment on the economy or the industries, just not him.

There's a reason why across ten acres there isn't a single dog, cat, sheep or horse to be found, he'd rather till a whole field by hand than cope with a living, breathing dependant. If you leave a fruit grove alone for three months at a time then unless lightning strikes they're all going to be there when you get back. The garden might be full of weeds but the beans will still be there and the herbs will be wild and thriving.

But if you trip over the dog then it doesn't know when to trust you, and if there are mice in the field then the cat won't bother with you. Sheep care more about the herd than the shepherd, and horses and oxen breed and bond in a way that makes extended absences wear on their health. Friends help you out until you do something to set them off. Lovers only connect if the feelings go both ways.

Romano sits under his lemon tree and watches the sun set over his land. He's too hurt to hold back a tear when he hears a rented car engine start and peter away in the night.

* * *

**OKAY. I looked it up, and believe it or not ketchup seems to be google's favourite non-aloe sunburn recipe. Frankly I agree with Romano and the idea of putting acid (in the form of tomatoes or vinegar) on a sunburn sounds like a form of torture, but apparently the two work wonders. I did, however, find it a stretch that he'd have ketchup since it's a very North American condiment, and although Seborga has a bottle, I doubt picky South Italy would keep any.**


	5. Part 5: Grrrr

**Mr. Hurricane is officially my song for these two and I blame it for the end of this chapter. Some Avril Lavigne and I had Aurora going before I gave up on this being too serious.**

* * *

_**Black Chery**_

Part 5: Will You Just Fucking Kiss Already?

He just doesn't go back inside.

Nope, it's warm enough outside that Romano stays out in the orchard. It's not very comfortable, but it's not cold, and he's too upset to go wandering through an empty house to get to his bed when he's settled and moody under the lemon tree.

So he just doesn't go back in, and he must fall asleep because when he opens his eyes again he's wet with morning dew and... is this a blanket?

He hears footsteps whispering across the grass, but they're moving away from him and before his eyes are open the sound is gone. The dawn light isn't shining in his eyes, but he's definitely under a blanket. The rays creeping over the mountain reach around the tree trunks and low bushes to find the beaded dew clinging to the rough weave of the blanket and the blades of grass cushioning his cheek, but that's not right. His neck should hurt if he slept without something bracing his head, but his arms are under the blanket and his neck is fine. The grass marks on his face, when he touches them, also aren't deep enough for a whole night spent on his side.

Why is the grass behind him dry when everything else is wet? Why is it crushed when he can tell from the stiffness everywhere else that he hasn't moved while sleeping? Under the blanket he finds one of his shirts draped over hi- _SHIT._

Romano bolts upright and the early morning is entirely too quiet. He almost trips on the blanket trying to get himself up and on his feet. Without thinking he starts running, stumbling for several steps as he gets his arms through the shirt's sleeves and pulls it over his head. No way, no fucking way, he was so sure that-

"I- I thought you left." He's standing at his own back door when he stops and gasps the words, because he can see right through his kitchen to the pale man standing there scowling at the coffee maker. Romano's confused, he knows he's relieved but he just doesn't understand: he heard the car. He heard it pull away and drive off. He heard Prussia leave but Gilbert's right here.

Rush up, kiss him, apologize. Those three things in order shoot through his mind and Romano has to grip the doorframe tight to keep himself from acting on the impulses. The first two, at least, are completely out of the question, and he's not sure about the third one when Prussia just lifts a hand and scratches the back of his head awkwardly, clearing his throat and glancing around the kitchen instead of looking at him.

"Should um, uh..." Romano's never seen him grasp for words before. "You want me to leave?"

"No." He doesn't have to think about his answer, he just gives it because it feels right. "But I thought you had. I heard the car-"

"I figured you wouldn't come back if I was still here." But Romano hadn't come back because the house was empty... "Drove to town, came back." Prussia doesn't say it, but Romano can hear it as he carefully crosses into the kitchen to stand closer to him. He can hear it:

I looked for you.

I found you.

I stayed with you.

"Have you eaten yet?" Prussia's face starts going red again just from Romano coming close enough to speak softly.

"Coffee's almost ready." He talks around the question instead of answering it. "There's cake."

The only other person Romano knows bakes when he's upset is Austria. Prussia's prepared a spiced coffee cake with a cherry compote, and just from the texture Romano can tell that it's been sitting out for hours: he made it first and then went looking for him when Romano didn't come back inside.

They eat in painful, stifling silence, and it's the first time since Prussia arrived that he sits across the table instead of right next to Romano on the corner. Romano wants to say something because there's no reason for this silence. They're not mad at each other and yesterday was stupid and awkward, but they should be through that now and everything can go back to normal. So why isn't it going back to normal?

Prussia asks if he can take a look at the broken latch on the bathroom window, and Romano says sure. He washes up and then escapes outside to tend his grape vines and they don't see each other again until noon.

"You have pidgeons living in your attic."

"I have what?"

"Pidgeons." In his attic. "Lots of pidgeons."

"How the hell have I never heard them?"

"Guess that's what happens when you sleep outside." That stings, but it just makes Romano decide not to go back out to the vineyard. "Why not?" Huh?

"Because... there are pidgeons in my attic?" So Romano should go get rid of them?

"I already started that." That's not a job a guest should be handling. "Why not? You're busy with your plants."

"My plants aren't shitting all over my house."

Prussia mutters something unsavoury into his wine glass and Romano starts grinding his teeth. They're drinking his wine now too, they blitzed through that cherry wine from Cologne in the first few days Prussia was here. Come to think of it, they've had a lot of wine in the last week since their meals have taken at least an hour or two each time with all the talking. Today they're just drinking though, no chatter, and with one bottle empty and a second one nearly there, Romano knows which ratio he prefers.

He has no idea why the fuck they're being so hostile with one another now, but it's pissing him off all over again.

"Fine. You wanna muck around with bird shit then go ahead. Thanks."

"You're fucking welcome." He's such a little bitch. "Do you have any roofing materials?"

"No, why?"

"How do you think they got in?" Romano stands up and starts gathering up the dishes from their cold meal, snatching away the bowl of cured olives before Prussia can reach for one.

"So you're telling me to fix my damn roof?" He snaps.

"No, I'm telling you _I'm_ going to fix your damn roof."

"What?" He practically drops the dishes in the sink before twisting the water on, not even paying attention to how much soap he squirts into the falls. "You think I'm going to let you turn bright red again?" His mind scrambles for something red that isn't a tomato, his eyes landing on a bowl of pink fruit before his mouth betrays him: "You looked like a god-damned cherry yesterday."

There are two hands on the counter with arms there to trap and keep him in place. Prussia's chest touches his back and Romano's temperature screams up by several degrees before a sharp breath hits his neck, followed by very threatening words:

"Says the one who couldn't keep his god-damned hands to himself." Fucking _hell._

"Hey, I fucking asked you!" Romano can't do this, he can't be this close to this asshole with this much wine in his blood. He can't have Prussia breathing on his neck with wine-sweet breath and sweat dying on his skin from the menial work he's been doing around the house all morning. "I asked you again and again, did you want me to stop? And you said no every time- I fucking heard you!"

The best way to scare Prussia off is to do exactly what Romano's aching for anyways, so he turns and lets his face line up with Gilbert's where it's close to his neck. He expects the blonde to jump back and get away from him, but instead- oh-

Instead, Gilbert straightens up enough so their foreheads actually touch and Romano's brown eyes start drowning in the wine-red pair in front of him. All he can smell is wine and sweat and aftershave and Gilbert's pale cheeks are bright pink again like before. And he's pissed.

It's turn, touch, kiss. It's that damn fast. Romano doesn't even realize there's a hand on his back until after he sees the blush, and the kiss came before both and Gilbert's just scowling at him like it's his fucking fault for some reason. Well fuck him, Romano glares right back even as the fireworks crackle and pop down his spine.

It's a closed-mouth kiss, but as soon as Gilbert starts pulling back Romano's got him with a hand behind his head and forces him into another lip-lock. He'll get one good, long, satisfying kiss from this moment if it kills him, and he only opens his eyes once when he hears the blonde make a soft whine in his throat. Gilbert's not glaring anymore; his eyes are shut as his lips give against a warm lick and gentle push on his bottom lip.

Actually, all of him gives. Romano goes for more and instead of standing his ground Gilbert shuffles back, one arm tugging the Italian with him and the other out and flailing back looking for the table. He's not sure which one of them's responsible for Romano ending up between his legs, but when Gilbert's backside finds the table he's given the unbearable satisfaction of their hips colliding and the tight feelings below the belt grow into an agonizing heat.

Romano plants his hands on the table and Gilbert leans back on his own palms. The kiss broke when they stopped moving, but he can feel all that heat and weight pushing down on his hips. Gilbert just makes it worse by refusing to stop moving, grinding slowly like he can't help himself, eyes closed with Romano standing over top of him.

It all just makes his blood run hot. The panting, the grinding, the blush that doesn't go away when Romano gives in and kisses one of Gilbert's cheeks. And then they're kissing again, because he knows what that head-tilt means and he's too caught up in the moment to wonder how many hints and clues he's missed since Gilbert got here.

No one fires up like this unless a low burn's been going on for a while. Teases and risk-takers don't give up control without thinking. If Gilbert was playing him then he wouldn't look so punch-drunk when the kiss breaks so he can lift Romano's shirt up over his head. The fucker wanted him to wear it so badly and now there are pale hands running down his chest and sides.

Somehow he's not even mad as he leans down and slips his fingers through Gilbert's hair again, twisting just enough so he tilts his head and lets Romano get at the smooth warm skin along his neck. It's a stretch but he kisses up into the hairline behind the blonde's ear, Gilbert uttering breathless sounds that masquerade as something half composed. He doesn't gasp or whimper, it's more like he stutters senseless German while his fingertips roughly tease the Italian's nipples, and his palm travels eagerly along his back.

He likes this. He likes this a lot, and he likes it even more when he stops Gilbert from actually laying on the table so he can work his cotton shirt open and pull the blue fabric off his pale body. There, as the fabric whispers to the floor, now he can lay down, and Romano helps him shuffle his hips back and up properly onto the platform.

The contrast is so sharp between their skins, but even though his blush is gone Gilbert's flesh is so warm Romano can't stand it. He just stands there for a moment looking down at him, his hands on Gilbert's pale chest, and watches all the colours change when he tweaks one pink nipple and a healthy flush rolls over firm muscles covered by white skin. The backs of his arms and sides of his neck are blushed with gold as the burns from yesterday are long forgotten and transformed into a light tan. And the scars-

"Lovino?" He bends down and places his lips over one of them, a bullet wound under the left collar bone that's just a white circle now. He lets his thumb glide down between ribs and warm a long white line from what was probably left by a sword in some past century. "...You too, huh?"

"Yeah." Yeah, he wants this too. Gilbert takes his wrist and drags his hand up until his palm is cupping the Prussian's cheek and jaw, his lips searching for the centre of his palm as Romano curls his fingers so they can touch and stroke more of his face. Down on his chest Romano doesn't care about the scars anymore, he just wants to touch and kiss and taste, and Gilbert's calves hook around his legs clumsily to make him come closer.

He has no idea how they're going to do this on a table, but the prospect of trying is enough to make him grin stupidly against the patch of pale blonde in the centre of Gilbert's chest. There's barely enough room for Gilbert to move back without his head going off the other side of the table so if it's too difficult then they'll just find someplace else. But that doesn't mean they have to rush to the bedroom, and when he looks up because Gilbert's hands are pulling on his shoulders to coax him up, Romano won't deny him and places one knee up on the thin wood.

"So that cake this morning..."

"Hey, I know what you like." And Romano knows he's too damn sentimental, practically growling the words out as he leaves the floor behind with a small hop. He slides one hand over Gilbert's shoulder and then they both, tilt?

There's the scream of table legs across tile, two grown men shriek, and then with an explosive bang the word goes very, very dark.

* * *

**And the moral of the story is: always have the author specify which part of the table you're making out on.**

**Stopping here makes for a funny segue into what really honestly ought to be the last chapter~**


	6. Part 6: WEEEHHHHHH

**Mr. Hurricane, I'm Wide Awake, Right Here Waiting. I wrote this in half a week why do you think the songs are always the same?**

**I THOUGHT IT WAS DONE AND I'M NOT I AM SO SAD.**

* * *

_**Black Cherry**_

Part 6: IT WAS A ONE-WORD PROMPT

Ow.

OW.

_OW FUCKING OW WHAT THE FUCK._

"Shit!"

"What happened?"

"You broke my table!"

"I- Oh, _I_ broke your table?"

"YES."

"QUIT BLAMING ME FOR SHIT."

"I'll stop blaming you WHEN IT STOPS BEING YOUR FUCKING FAULT."

He's given right the fuck up on guessing what's going to happen next. An hour ago Romano never would have believed someone telling him that he'd end up laying half-naked on top of Gilbert. Two minutes ago Romano never would have imagined that he'd go from being on top of Gilbert on top of his kitchen table to both of them trapped _under_ the god-damned thing.

And they're not really trapped, I mean, trapped is a relative term. They flipped the damn thing by being too far on one end of it, but it's actually a chair they hit on the way down that's flipped over and covering them. The table is currently standing with two legs in the air, possibly going out the window, and the two of them are in a heap surrounded by broken plates and spilled wine.

Oh and hot water.

"Shit- the tap!"

Romano has never been cock-blocked by a house before, but he's pretty sure that's what's happening. The overflowing sink is spitting suds out over the counter before he gets the water to shut off, and of course it overflows even more when he reaches in to fish out the plug and let it drain. When he turns back around, Gilbert is sitting up and slowly discovering just how much of himself is stained with the remaining half-bottle of wine from their lunch. Thankfully, despite what it looks like on the floor, wine doesn't resemble blood when it's washed over skin. Romano's not quite sure how he's supposed to feel right now.

Aroused? He liked being aroused, that was fun. Arousal cut through all the fucking tension that's been bubbling up between them.

But on the other hand his house is vermin-infested and full of broken glass. A responsible nation would pick up after himself, take care of his guest, and make arrangements to have the feathery interlopers in his attic disposed of.

"Wanna go outside?" But it's the heat of the day.

"I'm covered in wine...?"

"There's the spring." And South Italy is not a responsible nation.

There's no wild wrestling in the water this time, in fact it's mostly just floating in the lazy current with barely any talking. This is understandable: Romano wants to talk but he also really doesn't. Suddenly making out with your best friend isn't what most people expect after a day of getting on each other's nerves and sending lots of mixed up messages. Romano's thought about it, he's wanted it, he's even had a couple unsatisfying dreams about it at this point, but he doesn't have a clue about Gilbert. In the heat of the moment he was convinced it must be the same thing, the same kind of feeling, and even this morning with the blanket and the warm grass he was almost certain.

But floating in the cool spring water watching Gilbert keep to the shade... neither one of them will say anything.

Romano decides to break the silence.

...

And then ten minutes and a lot of flustered glances later he actually breaks it.

"Did you sleep with me last night?" NO THAT'S NOT WHAT HE-

"_Why would you even!-?"_

Romano cuts through the water in a few firm strokes, because no, he's not putting up with this shit again right now. Gilbert is doing his stupid blushing thing, just not as brilliantly as before, and at least he doesn't over-react and try to get away before Romano's feet touch the stone bottom of the spring so he can stand with his shoulders just out of the water.

"I said sleep, not fuck, you idiot." It's crass but- "Will you just answer the stupid question?" He should be blushing and carrying on twice as hard as Gilbert, but it's just not in him right now He watches the platinum blonde hover in the cold water for several moments before he gets it together.

"Yes, fine, I did! I slept behind you, are you satisfied?" He is, so while Gilbert stands there looking flustered and stupid, Romano musters what little courage he naturally possesses and moves in. Gilbert can see him coming and doesn't stop him, so it's not entirely Romano's fault that when they're close enough to kiss, it happens.

Nothing bad happens, it's just a kiss. It's wet, slightly chilled lips pressed against ones that are a little bit warmer and dry, and under the water Romano's fingertips are touching Gilbert's arm just to keep himself steady in the current. He feels a hand brush against his shoulder and leave beads of water behind that trail down his back, but then the kiss is done and that's really all Romano wanted.

Gilbert's lips kind of follow his as he pulls back, but it's not exaggerated, and when Romano realizes he's waiting for him to say something, he scrambles for useless words.

"World didn't end, did it?" And as words go they are entirely useless, sort of like Gilbert's little smile but that's not as cheesy, and hey, Romano likes seeing it so whatever. He lifts his feet off the stone bottom and kicks himself away through the water, heading for the shallows so he can wade over to the grass where their clothes are sitting.

"Where are you going?" Is Gilbert asking him to stay?

"To sit in the shade, it's too cold in here." He hears the Prussian scoff behind him, but Romano really does find it too cold. As he sloshes to the dry grass he picks up his shirt and jeans but doesn't put either on, it's too hot for a towel and his shorts are too wet to try stuffing his legs into his pants. He stumbles and climbs a bit further until one of those wayward olive trees dotting his property invites him over with its umbrella-wide branches and sweet grass under the trunk.

He slips his arms through the sleeves but keeps the shirt unbuttoned, because he's up for the whole modesty thing but not the dying of heatstroke part. Besides, the shirt keeps the grass from prickling him as he settles down on the green and lets his eyes slide shut. He can hear the drone of insects and the splashing water in the spring, but it's so quiet out here, the kind of peace you can't get in Rome or the proper city of Naples.

He lays on his side like that for several minutes, maybe longer with his arm curled under his head to cushion him. When he hears wet footsteps whispering over the grass, he argues with himself about whether to look up and figure out what Gilbert's doing, or staying comfortable where he is on the ground. When he hears a heavy thud and a huff he just has to assume it's him sitting down.

"...We almost fucked in your kitchen and you haven't said a word." Romano's sleepy, not asleep, so he takes a deep breath in through the nose so Gilbert knows he's going to say something, even when it takes him a few minutes to get it out.

"Not sure what you want me to say." He's on a roll with these useless words right now, but his eyes are open and gazing through the heat and across the curve of the hills. "Not sure I know what you want."

"Well then that makes two of us." So it's just a matter of them coming clean to each other then? Somebody's gotta confess something so they can figure out what's going on? Romano doesn't have to think too hard before answers start bubbling up in his mind:

_'I want your stupid-ass humour when we go to boring meetings together, I want to watch those nasty pranks you pull on Austria and Germany when they aren't looking. I want those hours we spend cooking and to watch you screw up when you try bartering for food in the markets. I want you there so we can tease our idiot brothers for being so obvious it hurts, and I want you here because there's nothing in South Italy except me, so you came here to see me and for no other reason. And I want you here, and I want you to be here, and I want you to stay here, with me, for as long as I can have and keep you...'_

"Don't fall asleep! Does this just not bug you?" God help him, he even wants Prussia's stupid fucking temper.

"It bothers me." It bothers him enough that his eyes kind of hurt, and it isn't from the summer glare.

"Bullshit." Romano picks his head up, but only a little bit. He won't let himself roll over so Gilbert can see his eyes.

"I fell asleep last night crying at a cherry tree. It's not bullshit." He just makes his comment and puts his head back down.

"It is when you'd rather sleep outside than look at me."

"I'd rather sleep outside than stay in an empty house!" He says the words and Romano feels himself getting worked up enough that he pushes against the ground until he's sitting up, his back towards Gilbert as he furiously spits out his next words. "It's empty! It's always been fucking empty! Nobody wants to stay way out in the middle of fucking Campania with me: they want to see Rome, or Milan, or Naples. The windows are broken because I'm not here when it rains, the plumbing's almost two hundred years old and the kitchen was paid for by the marshal plan. You think that after the first person in sixty years to stay in it left I wanted to be anywhere _near_ those fucking walls?"

He covers his face with his hands because there are stupid hot tears in his eyes, not a lot, but enough, and his voice sounds more like a wail. He's so damn pissed with himself that he can't stand it. He wants to run away all over again, but before he can even reach for his composure he feels a set of legs flank him from behind, and then there's a pair of arms wrapping themselves around his body. He doesn't resist, just tries to make himself smaller until Gilbert's holding him so tight it ought to hurt, but it doesn't.

"I'm sorry..." There are lips on his throat and he doesn't know what to do with that intimate kind of touch right now.

"Shut up, at least you came back." He doesn't care about the house, he cares that Gilbert left. That's what's most important to him; he left and he came back and then whatever that was in the kitchen almost happened, and he's confused himself so badly trying to figure it out in this heat.

"I did..." Those lips touch his skin again and he drops his hands so they aren't in the way. It's a slick, open-mouthed affair lapping at the dip between his shoulder and neck, Gilbert turning it into a set of light kisses as it moves higher up. He can't help but tilt his head so it's easier to spread the caresses, where'd this change come from? "Is this okay?"

"Y-Yes." There are little shocks and bolts curving down his neck along his spine, and Romano's not sure when he closed his eyes but he really doesn't want to open them again. Gilbert's arms tighten and readjust their position around him, pulling until his back is flush with his chest and his hips are backed up on the Prussian's lap.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No..." The kissing goes on a bit longer but not much further. It's been a day of bad sleep and hard work and petty arguing and almost sex, so the two of them end up on their sides under the olive tree. They talk about little things, not in depth, and whenever one runs out of things to say the other nudges his head down and takes a kiss off his lips. They just get used to it like that, the touch, and Romano finds out that while he's been this way since Paris, Gilbert's been having problems since Vienna.

"How...? I know we go drinking, but..."

"Can I get another..?" Sure he can, Romano's barely awake enough right now to chase down answers anyways. It's so hot out, the sun is determined to burn through their little patch of shade. "What time is it?"

"Do you care?" He must not, because this time it's Gilbert's turn to lean over and brush his lips over Romano's. He smiles a little bit and, "do you think it's love?"

"I don't really care."

"Me neither."

So they close their eyes and take a nap, because that's what siestas are for.

* * *

**There were another 800 words on the end of this chapter, and they made it a cliffhanger you guys would hate me for, so I lopped them off and now they're just the opening/set-up of next chapter, because I resent the fact that this has exceeded 15,000 words.**

**I'm going to go curl up in a ball and sleep.**


	7. Part 7: Rawr

**I'm Wide Awake, Lullaby, Mr. Hurricane, I can't remember if there was anything else.**

**I really thought Prumano was a rare-pair, but the interest this story's generated for my account has proved me OH SO VERY WRONG. Huge thanks to everyone who's read this and gone on to read the rest of my archive!**

**Now AVERT YER EYES, CHLDREN, THERE BE NAKED MEN AHEAD.**

* * *

_**Black Cherry**_

Part 7: If I Actually Hated the Story I Wouldn't Be Writing Smut For It

They wake up in a better mood, and somehow over the next few days they keep it that way. The kitchen's put back in order and the supplies for the roof and pest removal show up. Bird shit is the least sexy thing in the world and the sticky-sweet sunblock Gilbert slathers on while they repair the roof is a close second. The garden thrives and Romano learns that his (boy)friend likes sweet cherries better than black ones, because every morning he rushes out to check on the tree in the orchard.

"Leave them alone."

"But there're some more way up at the top!"

"Gilbert no."

"If we don't get them then the birds will!"

"What is it with you and heights- GILBERT GET DOWN FROM THERE."

Another week turns into two and Gilbert's skin resists every effort to darken naturally under the sun. It prefers, according to the blonde, to blister just so there's an excuse for Romano to gently work a store-bought bottle of aloe gel into his back and shoulders.

So Romano makes a point of always complaining about the task, even when his hands start to wander in the evening and a back massages somehow turn into Gilbert panting and whispering his broken German words under his hands and hips. Romano refuses to pick up the pieces of the language Gilbert offers him, but when they share a breath between long hot kisses he whispers back love-drunk words that make the Prussian's blush grow darker and darker just like before. There's never anything on hand to make things go any further, but Romano's not all together sure how to improve on the needy kisses and the gentle scent of aloe.

Sex is elusive and not spoken of, because although it seems obvious it's actually really not. With a female partner there's a default position, there's a way of doing things that nine times out of ten is going to be just fine for the first encounter and doesn't require much forethought or planning beyond not being an ignorant sonofabitch in bed. With a male partner it's different, not completely different, but the approach isn't quite the same. Maybe Romano can just throw the almighty Prussia on his bed and fuck him senseless, but that's just as likely to be completely against his military sensibilities. Face-down can be offensive but face-to-face can be demeaning too if you're not ready for it, penetration itself just isn't okay sometimes but others might not count hands as sex.

So IT'S. FUCKING. COMPLICATED. And he doesn't care if he's over-thinking it. When another evening ends with Gilbert dozing with his head on Romano's bare chest, the Italian just strokes his platinum hair and calmly breathes in the scent of the aloe mixture that's become embedded in his couch. He's trying to bring his heart-rate down after all that incessant grinding and heavy petting, slowly tumbling words in his head that all roughly equate to _'How do you like to be fucked?'._

"Hey..." Hm? Oh, Gilbert's still awake. "How religious are you?" Uuuh...

"What?"

"Religious, the church, how much?" Enough to wear the cross and call himself a Catholic, like most of his people, why? "...I was the Order of Saint Mary's."

"I know that." Prussia started out as an order of chivalric monks or something, he's barely recognizable but Romano remembers meeting him once or twice way back when. He just looks down at him curiously and combs his fingers through those short white hairs again. "So?"

"So I get it." Get what? "If you don't wanna fuck 'cause we're dudes." ...

"You're crass when you-"

"-spend a month getting off in the shower because you won't fucking do it." Calm thoughts, calm thoughts, his blood belongs in his brain right now not flowing down. It doesn't help when Gilbert picks his head up off Romano's chest and gives him a dirty look. "But I get it."

There's silence between them and Romano really can't say how long it goes for, because Gilbert's just popped the lid off a box he's been hammering more and more nails into trying to keep it shut. There's a low tone humming through his brain and he really needs to change that light bulb in the corner because the lamp is splashing Gilbert with orange light, and it's so fucking distracting to see him all aglow. The love-marks are like Romano's little signature printed on his shoulders and throat.

"The last of the cherries are on the counter, love, can you grab them?" There's no physical way for Romano to smooth his voice right now without it breaking, and Gilbert just slides his arms free from under the Italian's back.

"Don't change the subject." His red eyes brighten and his pupils dilate slightly, he's curious and the bulge pressing against his stomach is probably a good reason why. Romano sitting up just a little and hooking a finger under his chin makes the meaning sink in.

"Believe me, I'm not... Go." Gilbert goes, which is both rewarding because he's obedient and disappointing because he's not on top of him anymore. While Gilbert searches the kitchen Romano slowly sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch before running a hand back through his hair, eyes closed and mind spinning. He's not trying to figure out what's happening, he's trying to think his way through what's going to happen _first._

"Hungry?" He's got the answer and barely hears Gilbert's question, glancing at the bowl of pink fruits and pulling one up by the stem to look at in the orange light. He can't stop himself from smiling a little bit, biting his lower lip to keep it from growing too much.

"Wanna play a game?" He asks. The fruit is smoothly rounded almost like a heart, and as the couch sinks a little with Gilbert sitting next to him, Romano pops the little pink treat in his mouth and splits the firm skin with his teeth.

"Of course." The cherry falls apart in even halves and Romano tucks the pit into the corner of his cheek so it won't get in the way. He enjoys the tender flesh before pulling another cherry from the bowl that's now sitting in his lap, and as he swallows the sweet he holds this one up to Gilbert's lips.

"Don't eat it," he instructs, and Gilbert's giving him a curious, curious look, his mouth half-open to accept it. "Hold it on your tongue, I'm going to take it away from you." A challenge, a game, a competitive edge to give Gilbert something more to do than just lay back and stutter. Gilbert shows his support for this idea by languidly wrapping his lips around the cherry, over-extending on purpose so Romano's fingers feel the soft, warm, wet texture of his lips and tongue before they pull back.

Romano's smile is gone, but he's the furthest thing from upset right now. He takes the knotted cherry stem out of his mouth along with the pit and Gilbert's eyes follow the twisted branch like a magnet. Romano resists the temptation to stroke Gilbert's taught lips and lets his fingers slide behind his head instead, leaning in and pulling him over before they both take a breath and connect.

Gilbert knows what he's capable of, he doesn't need cherry stems tied in knots to hint at what's coming. The blonde moans softly because there's only so much space in his mouth with that cherry there to keep his teeth from locking. Romano gets his lips open with only a few strokes of his tongue and doesn't mind the barrier of teeth trying to keep him out. He just smiles as his boyfriend tries again and again to kiss back.

There are hands on Romano's sides and they sweep up and down with care, one hand holding his shoulder and pulling him closer while the other circles around the small of his back. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this, but if Gilbert wants to move on from familiar territory then Romano is only too happy to oblige him.

There are already fresh red marks on Gilbert's pale skin from earlier, so Romano lets his lips suck and tease his mouth while his own hands start to move. His touch doesn't wander across strong shoulders and firm muscle, but glide straight down to the edge of his pants. His boyfriend grunts once but it's too late, and Romano gets his belt open and the fly on his jeans down before taking exactly what he wants.

Gilbert almost chokes and the kiss breaks so he can cough, swallowing the cherry whole while he's at it. And Romano just smiles because Gilbert's face is so rosy, and he takes several deep breaths with his hands clutching Romano's back and shoulders. Romano doesn't need two hands for this but he uses one to pull that pesky waistband out of the way while the other curls firmly around what's been hiding under all those clothes.

He's rewarded with a healthy twitch against his palm, stammered German whispered in front of him, and the light plop of cherries hitting the floor where that bowl's spilled over in his lap.

"Move that out of the way," Romano murmurs, because since he's got two hands on Gilbert, he might as well use them. Gilbert fumbles to stuff the ceramic bowl behind the cushions next to them, and the hand he's got on Romano's shoulder almost bruises him as he slips his fingers down into the hot, dark space between the blonde's legs. "Tell me what you want."

They've moved very slowly but now Gilbert's leaning back on the arm of the couch. His legs are awkwardly placed on either side of him while Romano's feet are still touching the floor, sort of, he's a bit twisted now. He rubs his thumb firmly against the underside of the head in his grasp, and it sets off one of those lovely shivers that makes all the muscles in Gilbert's body tense and relax all together. His other palm is cupping the heavy weight lower down while those fingertips, well, he's not doing anything with them yet, he wants Gilbert to speak first.

"Gil."

"_Oh God you're hands are warm..." _The words come out in one fast breath, and Gilbert's eyes are closed as Romano pushes a little harder with his thumb and squeezes gently. As nice as that sounds, he wants an answer, "Just do something-"

"That's what I'm asking. What do you like?" Romano's not even doing that much to him, and yet Gilbert takes a fast, sharp gasp before running through his answer:

_"I like you, I like you a lot, I like the things you do so just make up your mind an- aaahh...!" _That's all he was looking for. Consent, permission, freedom to to try something with the understanding that if it doesn't work they'll try something else. So Romano does what's almost guaranteed to please most lovers, male or female. He doesn't mind the taste, and his hands are already there so when he can't go down all the way from lack of practice, he can still squeeze and rub and caress his partner.

The hardest fucking part is not fucking smiling, and Gilbert losing complete and total control of his tongue makes this next to fucking impossible. Smiling brings your jaws together, jaws have teeth, and teeth do not factor in to what he's doing in any sort of positive way. He knows Gilbert's sitting up again because his hips shift back slightly, and Romano's move back so he can rest more comfortably between his legs. He struggles to keep the smile away and when Gilbert's stuttering pitch changes, he's allowed to pull off and let his hand slide up and keep squeezing and rubbing the spit-slick top. It keeps the mess to a minimum as the heat collides with his palm, and Romano can grin and grin and grin to his heart's content.

"Feel better?" They're not done, they're not allowed to be done, not yet, so even when Gilbert reaches for him Romano shuffles back and grabs his lover's pantlegs. The blonde is just panting, sitting there like he's in a lazy daze, so it takes a few tries before Romano finally jerks the jeans free off his hips and lets them pile on the floor next to the couch. He wants to give the underwear the same treatment, but Gilbert gets his hands on him first and Romano finds himself pulled into a very strong, very appreciative hug. The embrace comes complete with a heavy kiss on his lips that competes with his smile, but Gilbert doesn't seem to care, and Romano definitely doesn't.

There's a hand tangled tightly in his hair and Romano doesn't mind it a bit, tightening his arms around his boyfriend's firm warm body while Gilbert starts tugging and fighting with his shorts. It's hard to choose between this kind of crushing embrace and searing kiss, or working his hands down to let himself out of his clothes.

In the end he lets Gilbert struggle with it, silently impressed with how he manages to get both layers down at once with only one hand, and the urge to force his bare hips down on him is crippling. He's still laying between Gilbert's legs, kissing hard on his throat as he feels them start to roll ove-

_"It's a couch-!"_

It is exactly too late when Romano gives the warning, and a moment later his living room is upside down and god damn his tile floors are _cold_. He hears Gilbert swearing and feels the hand that saved his head from the floor trying awkwardly to lift him up. Once Romano's oriented enough to figure out that his boyfriend is only half off the couch, he reaches up and pulls him the rest of the way down on top of him.

"Why are you laughing?" Gilbert growls, and Romano just can't help himself.

"Because we're pathetic." He kisses him and it's short, fast and sweet. And Romano does it again, and then once on his cheek, then along his nose and between his eyes, and he's still grinning and giggling. He runs one hand up from Gilbert's covered thigh and hip along his pale side, and he coaxes his boyfriend down on the floor to grind with him. "We keep falling off things."

"It's a narrow couch."

"That doesn't make it a bed." Bed. They should definitely go to Romano's bed for this. Cold stone floors aren't good enough for nights like this. "Not as much fun."

"I dunno, you haven't stopped smiling yet." What, is it a bad thing? "I didn't say that." Should he stop? "You should shut up."

So Gilbert gets him with a kiss that apologizes for the fall, and those shorts Romano didn't get a chance to pull off him are taken care of. Finally, after months of wanting and waiting they're actually nude in each other's embrace. It's a small victory but it's an important one, and Romano's the one to slowly break the kiss and take the moment in. He sits up slowly and Gilbert shuffles so he's resting in his lap, and if not for the tiles and the lack of space between the couch and the coffee table, this would be perfect.

So he asks again:

"What do you want, Gil?"

"I think I'm being pretty obvious." He's also a cocky shit.

"You think, but I wanna hear it first."

"Lovino." He was already looking at him but Gilbert cups his face with both hands anyways, re-establishing eye-contact and holding him like that. When Gilbert leans in he expects a kiss, but instead he's a damned tease who only speaks to him with their lips so close together they actually brush each other. "You Romantics have a reputation with strangers." he resents the words, not that husky voice Gilbert uses to say them. "I'm not a stranger." He knows that. "So I want you to put that stupid grin back on and show me what this's like with someone you love." Oh...

_Oh._

The words take a moment and then Romano feels their effect. It's chilling at first and then it suddenly gets very warm, like thick honey running down his back and washing down his limbs so he feels slow and unbearably sweet. His mouth is half-open when Gilbert gives him the short kiss he was hoping for, Romano's eyes staying open as his mind spins its wheels in a hurry before turning in a completely different direction from before.

Love. Love, love, love; someone he loves.

"We, uh..." It's not about sex with a man or a woman or caring about what's proper or decent or casual or whatever. It's about texture and taste and warmth and voices and wanting love, expressing joy. It's not about sex with Prussia, it's about making love with Gilbert. "We need a bed."

And just like that, Romano's not over-thinking things anymore.

* * *

**My frustrations with this story stemmed more from the fact that I only worked on this all week instead of my dedicated fic for the HetaOni (sub)fandom. D: I needed Happy!Mano to make myself feel better for ripping the poor boy's heart out and stomping on it in Recovery, but I kinda didn't expect to spend a whole week working on a fluff bunny.**

**But it's over now so bwahahahaha enjoy chapter 8!**


	8. Part 8: Yaaay!

**Imagine Dragons' "Demons".**

**SEQUEL SEQUEL SEQUEL. THE SEQUEL IS ON MY PROFILE. THE SEQUEL IS CALLED "TRIPLE THREAT". GO READ TRIPLE THREAT.**

**Thanks for reading Black Cherry! GO READ SEQUEL.**

* * *

_**Black Cherry**_

Part 8: This Was One Hell of a One-Shot

In Romano's honest opinion, if your partner ever asks you if you're done or something's over, then you're doing a shitty job. Wincing doesn't belong in bed, gritting your teeth isn't necessary, if you're crying then by God it had better be because it feels that fucking good. Any lover who uses the fall-back _"it'll stop hurting in a minute"_ should be dragged out of bed and kicked in the face, because it shouldn't hurt at all you lazy fuck just do it right.

So Romano does it right, and they take their time because there's no rush to take the edge off. It takes more lube than Gilbert thinks is necessary, but he's taught not to question him in these matters because there is absolutely no pain. Romano can't be too hard on him though, because they only have that bottle and a set of condoms because Gilbert chose way back in that first week to pick them up in the pharmacy where he found a toothbrush and shampoo.

"You're so eager..."

"If you're g-gonna tease me, do it in Italian you- _uuuh_..."

Romano obliges him, but simple teases turn into more sincere things, whispered love and sweet joy. The part that aches to let Gilbert know what he's saying is beaten out by the way he'd burst into flames if he had to put the words in English. But he's sure that Gilbert knows anyways, because when he struggles for the fourth time to say how much he loves him Gilbert's lips shut him up and their hips and hands do the rest of the talking.

They fall asleep in a sweaty, tangled mess and wake up in the glare of sunlight over ratty cotton sheets. It's nice to be held from behind, but the kisses on his neck seem too soft until Gilbert makes a wise-crack about the springs in the old mattress.

"Bite me."

"Again?" Gilbert traces one finger over a particular bruise on Romano's shoulder, something he didn't notice last night, and the brunette just huffs and hides his smile in his pillow.

And they just stay like that for an hour, maybe two, he has no way of knowing. They alternate between dozing and talking, laughing about the cracked plaster on the wall and how no, there hasn't been glass in that window for a few years. Romano jokingly agrees to get a new mattress before Gilbert comes back again, since this one is at least twenty years old.

"But... you can't come back until after you leave." His smile kind of slips when he states what's completely obvious, and Gilbert just keeps staring at the ceiling where he's laying on his back next to Romano. They aren't touching, the heat outside is already creeping in through that window. "There was some big thing happening in Berlin this month, wasn't there?"

"International Auto Show." Right... South Italy is to the Agricultural Sector what Prussia is to the German Auto Industry. "West just doesn't have time for it thanks to the world economy and local issues, so I keep on top of those guys in manufacturing and design." So, mechanical engineer. "Yeah, yeah, your grandpa's song was right..." Gilbert turns his head to look at him, he's doing that thing again with his face and drops his voice down low. "Completely right."

"You're being sappy." And Romano puts his face back down in the pillow he's laying on, his arms up and wrapped around it.

"...Are you sunburnt, my Adonis?"

"I don't get sunburn," And Adonis was gored by a boar.

"Then is Narcissus blushing?" Drowned in his own reflection, and no. "I think you're lying, Hyacinth." _Killed by a jealous god._

"First of all: if you call me one more Greek name I'm going to hurt you. And second there are less disturbing ways to tell me I'm going to die!" Bad jokes, stupid laugh, idiot grin, soft lips, warm body wrapping itself around him...

"Then tell me..." God he needs to not press his lips against Romano's ear like that, it's too much when he breathes those soft, husky words and lets them tingle down his spine... "How do I say that you're beautiful and breath-taking in Italian?" _Hnnng..._

"You say: _I'm going to make breakfast, amore, any requests?_" He says the words in Italian, as desired, and if Romano shoves his face any further into the pillow then breathing is going to be a problem soon.

"You're a lying little shit." He refuses to see what's wrong with that, especially when he's coaxed to spread his legs a little and Gilbert's warm body slips down behind him. His hands start moving slowly over his hips and sides, and Romano grabs another pillow and pulls it over his head to sandwich himself between the cotton. It doesn't do any good, Gilbert just pulls it away with a snort so he can purr against Romano's ear again with: "But I still love you."

It's only after Gilbert's done getting back at him for last night and turning Romano's whole face crimson with his stupid compliments and love that he realizes how his lover's aggression wilts in the heat. And that's not clever a euphemism. It's no secret that Gilbert becomes a great big baby in the heat, and by the time the evening comes to cool him down he's so tuckered out he just lets Romano do whatever will take his mind off the hours of suffering.

In the morning, he has no such difficulties.

The heat's still just rising when Gilbert leaves the bedroom with a cheerful whistle and a bedsheet wrapped ceremoniously around his hips. Romano's left sticky and spinning on the bed wondering why he was so stupid about not making this leap sooner, and when he hears the shower running he has an impossible time deciding what to do with himself.

The phone is his answer, an alien sound that trills through the house like an obnoxious bird. It's like moving mountains trying to stumble his way from the bedroom to that shut-up office where the corded device sits on the desk, but Romano makes his legs work and gets over there before the call can be dropped.

"Ciao?"

_"Oh, yes, please don't hang up on me."_ It takes Romano a long, slow pause before he understands why Gilbert's accent is coming to him through the phone when his boyfriend is still in the bathroom. It's Kraut-breath. _"I'm calling to find out if my brother is still staying with you in Naples." _How the hell did he get this nu- Veneziano. Nevermind.

"Uuh," why does he pause in answering that? The answer is obviously- "Yeah, he's still here." So Young Kraut probably wants to talk to him. "He's in the shower." Actually, he can't hear the water anymore...

"A_h, well I need to speak with him, it's very important and can't wait much longer." _

"Are you still in Rome?"

_"I just arrived here on Sunday, actually. I'm leaving again on Wednesday and was hoping to take him back with me this time."_ Wednesday... that doesn't mean anything to Romano. _"...Tomorrow?"_

Oh, that makes more sense.

But oh shit, that's tomorrow.

"Well, uh-"

"Shower's free." An arm wraps itself around Romano's waist and he gives the most undignified shriek into the phone, clapping a hand over the reciever before turning a furious look on the man who tries giving him a kiss.

"_Idiot!_" He snaps, but that doesn't stop the kiss, not until he almost smacks Gilbert with the damned phone. "It's your stupid brother, are you fucking retarded?"

"No, but you need to clean up, don't you?" He's smiling, the bastard is _smiling_ and Romano can't put together a proper sentence to shoot him down right now, he just shoves the phone at him and storms out of the stuffy little room. And he's not blushing. He is not blushing. He is not embarrassed about being stark naked and spooked by Gilbert no he is not.

But he does turn the temperature way down during his shower, and Romano does stand under the water for longer than he absolutely has to, long enough at least to be sure that he is _not fucking blushing_ and Gilbert isn't still on the phone when he gets out.

He's happy to have his pants back on by the time he gets into the kitchen and starts looking for something to fix up for a late breakfast, but the way Gilbert trudges out with his hands in his jean pockets tells Romano the bad news.

"I guess you're leaving tomorrow?"

Gilbert drops into one of the dining room chairs like a fucking two year old, his bare feet sliding over the tile floor and his elbow thunking down on that damned table.

"Problems on the production line," he sulks, plucking invisible lint off his shirt as Romano cracks a couple eggs into a skillet. "He's freaking out saying we're not gonna be ready for that show in time."

"Is he exagerating?"

"Probably," but Gilbert was still gonna go check, right? "Hey, if someone said your crop was about to fail, you'd-"

"I'm not mad, idiot." While the eggs sizzle a tomato falls to a sharp paring knife, those slices entering the pan with a sharp hiss and a crack of black pepper. "Unless this somehow changes something...?" He glances briefly over his shoulder when he asks that, and notices Gilbert standing up before shuffling across the room to join him.

Instead of wrapping his arms around him again in a hug, Gilbert goes for the coffee tin and starts fiddling with the machine and dark grounds to get it going.

Eggs are served and coffee poured, and a soft kind of kiss tells them both that nothing's different or about to change. Romano agrees to make stuffed chicken breasts like that time in Berlin and asks Gilbert what kinds of deserts he can make with lemons. He lets his lover take over the kitchen for several hours making pastry dough for lemon tarts while he braves the unholy heat into town to find the few extra ingredients (like chicken) that they need for tonight. The cherries are picked up off the floor from last night and Romano gets Gilbert to hold the ladder while he climbs that damned tree to get the very last of them off the high branches before the birds do.

The entire day is spent cooking, because it's better to waste their time together laughing at what they love instead of lusting over what they've already got. Chicken in pesto sauce made from the fresh herbs in the garden, cooked in olive oil from olives pressed on his land (with an extra bottle of his best tucked into Gilbert's bag for tomorrow). They pair it with a wine from his grapes that Gilbert likes most, and end the meal with those tarts that are so sweet and so sour and held in such a crisp and flakey little cup.

The cherries go in the fridge to chill over night for tomorrow's breakfast, and they sit quietly at the table after Romano brews up one of those speciality coffees he never drinks out here, but that he and Veneziano both get hooked on as soon as they enter their big cities. The coffee cleanses the pallet and clears the mind, so there are no lusting gazes over the lip of their tiny cups or raging boners hidden behind lemon-stained napkins.

It ends with a drink.

But not sex.

It's just the two of them, now lovers, crawling into the bed in Gilbert's room because they realize neither one of them remembered to strip and wash the sheets on Romano's bed after last night. They're tired as hell after all of the laughing and cooking and Gilbert complaining endlessly about turning on the oven when the house was already so hot. Tonight they're exhausted and satisfied, but they decide that screw it, they're not sleeping alone.

"Hey..." Hey what? He's trying to sleep. "Banking conference in Zurich. Next month. You coming?"

He is now...

_**End**_

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**[Rolls Credits]**

**Title: ****Black Cherry**

**Main Character(s): Romano/S. Italy, Prussia.**

**Genre: Friendship, Romance, Comedy.**

**Chapters: 7**

**Word count: 19,617 (Minus all ANs)**

**Page Count: 44 (Minus all ANs)**

**OST: I'm Wide Awake (Katy Perry), Lullaby (Nickleback), Mr. Hurricane (Beast), Right Here Waiting (Staind), Demons (Imagine Dragons), Aurora (Hans Zimmer).**

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**I swear I thought Adonis, Narcissus and Hyacinth were Roman until I wisely double-checked and found out no, no no no, they're all Greek figures. It just seemed like a mistake Prussia would make, and likening your lover to a bunch of beautiful men who died HORRIBLE HORRIBLE DEATHS wasn't something I could pass up.**

**Thank you again for reading, and I hope you enjoyed my very first Prumano (one-shot)! Please leave a review below!**


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